


Absolutely Unlike Harrison Campbell

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Blow Jobs, Boredom, Canon Asexual Character, Consent, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Relationship Negotiation, Sexuality, sexuality exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24083485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: They do not fall into each other's arms.There's only so many games of cards that you can play on surveillance duty, and even the arguments have become stale. Zolf decides to take matters into his own hands and have them make their own entertainment.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 35
Kudos: 143





	Absolutely Unlike Harrison Campbell

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a real killer to finish thanks to *gestures at the state of the world in general* but I'm glad I got it done.
> 
> It's been really fun and interesting writing this fic, and getting to explore aspects of my own asexuality through Zolf. It's nice to have a character to project onto!

They do not fall into each other's arms. It is not some release of tension that has been building building building for months until it finally snaps and they fall onto each other. It is not romantic cliches, attraction and affection finally revealed after a slow peeling back of barriers unskillfully erected.

No. None of that. Neither of them works that way (neither of them deserves it). 

What it is instead: too few books read too many times, too many games of cards, too little space and far too many hours spent staring out of the window waiting for news.

What it is, is boredom.

There's a fog outside that makes even looking out of the window impossible, and Zolf has played so many games of solitaire and pontoon and cribbage that if he sees the pack of cards brought out he is going to scream.

Wilde has started pacing again, like a tiger in a cage, ten steps, turn and pivot, ten steps. They'd picked fights at first, dug claws into petty worries and ripped. 

But that had been a few days ago now and Zolf doesn't think he can muster the venom to make any of the same stupid fights satisfying anymore.

He says it when Wilde is about to turn. "Want to fuck?"

The slight stagger and the way Wilde blinks, is much more satisfying than arguing over nothing again. Wilde blinks again, and Zolf thinks for a moment that he might have done the impossible, and made Oscar Wilde lost for words.

It doesn’t last, mores the pity. A smirk curls across Wilde’s pretty lips, which he makes significantly less pretty when he speaks. “Why Mr. Smith, and here I thought you were unfortunately immune to my charms.”

It’s so smooth, so practised, so obviously fake, and Zolf hates it, just a bit. It’s worse now that he’s seen beneath the mask and the affectations. There’s something just a bit galling about Wilde using them on him these days. It’s a feeling that Zolf doesn’t want to examine too closely.

He gives a derisive snort instead, and pushes himself up to his feet. The mechanical legs still ache, especially now when it’s damp and cold and he hasn’t been able to stretch properly. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, and heads towards the bedroom. “I’m just bored as hell, and it’s either this or masturbation, and since we’re sharing the room, you might as well make yourself useful.” He pauses and shrugs. “Your choice.”

He doesn’t wait for Wilde’s response.

Calling it a bedroom is probably being generous. It’s technically a separate room, but there’s no door to shut, and the doorway is wide. They’ve tried to close it off from the living space with a curtain, but it’s flimsy, almost see-through, and there’s no way to muffle sound. Zolf pushes the curtain aside and heads towards the bed. It’s just about the only thing approaching luxury in the dismal safe house, and even then, only if you ignore the way the mattress sags and the springs work their way into your spine during the night.

He sits down on it, ignores the ominous creak, and starts to unfasten his trousers. He’s got them peeled halfway down his legs, and damn the way they catch on the prosthetics, when Wilde pushes the curtain aside. Huh, took him longer than Zolf had expected.

He stands there while Zolf pushes his trousers down and off his legs, revealing the prosthetics, magic and metal, and the scar tissue to match. His gaze rakes down over Zolf’s thighs and lower, and it’s not a pretty sight by even the most romantic stretch of the imagination. But there’s no disgust there at least, no horror, or pity. Just curiosity. He can deal with curiosity. 

“Well?” Zolf says, and raises an eyebrow. He’d have thought Oscar Wilde of all people would be keen to break the tedium with more enjoyable pursuits. 

“Of course,” Wilde says. He starts with the shirt, unfastening the buttons with deft and elegant fingers.

Zolf nods and works open his own shirt, and drops it on the ground with his trousers. He feels the bed dip and turns to see Wilde climb onto it, already naked.

He’s not exactly what Zolf had expected. Wilde had a reputation back in London, and he’s not figured out yet how much of that is truth, and how much is artifice, and they’ve been working together for six months. 

The scars surprise him. There’s not many of them, and none of them are half as savage as Zolf has seen on plenty of other people. On himself. But he’d expected pristine unblemished skin, not evidence of Wilde’s humanity, and it throws him.

“Like what you see?” Wilde says, and when Zolf drags his gaze back to his face, there’s a cocky smirk, which, unlike the scars, is exactly what Zolf had expected to see. He sprawls back against the pillows, not a care in the world, not a lick of shame. 

“It’ll do the job,” Zolf replies.

A look crosses Wilde’s face, like he’s not sure what to make of that. Zolf feels a smug sort of satisfaction at seeing it. 

“How very pragmatic of you,” Wilde says, the smirk firmly back in place. 

“That’s why you’re working with me, isn’t it? Pragmatism. This isn’t any different.”

Wilde snorts softly and pushes himself up to his knees. He leans over and reaches out towards Zolf. His fingers brush against Zolf’s cheek before settling there, splayed against his skin as he leans in for a kiss.

Objectively speaking, he is, Zolf supposes, a good kisser. His lips are warm and dry, and his tongue is delicate when it runs against the seam of Zolf’s lips. Zolf pulls away when it tries to push further into his mouth though, nose wrinkling in distaste.

Wilde frowns, brow furrowing, eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Zolf shrugs. “Just never much enjoyed having a tongue shoved in my mouth, like some great wet slug.”

Wilde gives him one of those looks, the imperious ones that Zolf had first thought were condescending, but now knows are there to hide a bruised ego. “I have never once kissed like my tongue is a slug.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Zolf replies. “I’d feel the same about anyone else who tried to shove their tongue down my throat.”

He is half expecting Wilde to demand explanations, or to try to push past that boundary. He’s Oscar fucking Wilde for gods sake, infamous hedonist. Of course he’d be invested in showing off every aspect of his skill.

Instead, Wilde nods, short and sharp. “Very well. Is there anything else that I should be avoiding?”

It’s Zolf’s turn to blink in surprise. For all that Wilde has been surprisingly easy to work with when he’s focused on an end goal, he really hadn’t expected this level of consideration from him. Wouldn’t have expected it from anyone honestly. He’s been more than content in the past with a swift elbow to whatever body part was in reach if a partner did something he didn’t like. They’d generally got the picture swiftly.

“Nothing off the top of my head. I’ll make sure you know if I don’t like something.”

Wilde gives a solemn nod. “Very well.”

Wilde leans in again for another kiss. It works better this time, the soft movement of lips on lips, now that there isn’t a rush to the ‘main event’. They have to shift a bit to make it comfortable, and it’s a bit slower going than Zolf would prefer for a boredom fuck, but he supposes they do have time to kill.

He curls fingers into Wilde’s hair; it’s still shorter than it had been when they’d first met in London, what feels like a lifetime ago, curling around his ears rather than his shoulders. He gives a soft tug, pulls Wilde away, and Wilde gasps. His eyes are a bit wide, and his tongue flicks out over his lips, and for all Zolf doesn’t want it in his mouth, he can’t deny it’s a nice sight. 

“What about you?” Zolf asks, and he scrapes his fingernails against Wilde’s scalp, feels him shudder. “Anything I should know to avoid?”

Wilde shakes his head quickly. Too quickly, more ingrained reaction than truth. That’s borne out when a second later, Wilde sighs. His expression shifts from seductive to something more honest.

“I would prefer that you do not cover my mouth or try to gag me,” he says bluntly. “Kissing is fine, as I’m sure you’ve realised, but nothing that takes that away from me.”

Zolf remembers Wilde gagged, blood running down his chin, and the unfocused sickness in his eyes. Remembers how cast adrift he’d felt when he’d been cut off from Poseidon and his magic. “Makes sense.”

There’s a hint of a smile there, the honest, lopsided one that he sees rarely when Wilde doesn’t think he’s being observed. Zolf leans in to kiss it off his lips, more aggressive with it, to ward off messy emotion that isn’t the point of this encounter. Wilde makes a pleased noise and his hands slide down over Zolf’s sides, exploring the planes of his body, and finally come to rest against his hips. His gaze flicks down to Zolf’s cock, pressed soft between them, only just starting to respond. Wilde himself is already starting to get hard, his cock slim and as elegant as the rest of him.

“Very nice,” Wilde hums in appreciation, and reaches down to wrap a hand around Zolf’s cock.

His fingers are firm and warm, smoother than Zolf’s rope-worn roughness, but still rougher than he would have expected. He has a firm grip, and is deft with it as he gives Zolf’s prick an experimental stroke. It feels good; the novelty of a hand beside his own around him helps, and it’s been a while since that last happened. Wilde keeps touching, taking his time with slow touches, and lets out a soft, musical hum of satisfaction when his body starts to react.

There’s no snide remark from Wilde about the time it takes, the need for manual stimulation over gut-deep lust. The him of six months ago would have been surprised. The him of six months ago would have taken more pleasure from holding Wilde’s head down in clear water and watching the struggles fade.

“Good?” Wilde croons, his lips grazing Zolf’s ear. A question that doesn’t need an answer. He leans in, grinds his hips down so Zolf can feel the way their cocks press together, delicious friction sending sparks of pleasure through him.

He drops his face to press into the crook of Wilde’s shoulder, and groans against it. His teeth scrape against the pale skin, and then he bites down in retaliation to drag one of those pretty noises from Wilde’s lips. There is something intoxicating in knowing that he can drag that sound from his lips. Him, Zolf Smith, scarred and savage and the furthest thing from sensual, can bring it out of him just as much as any of Wilde’s bright young things.

“Don’t stop,” Wilde hisses when he tries to pull away.

Zolf takes that as a sign. He grabs Wilde’s hips and twists them both onto the bed, leaving Wilde sprawled out beneath him. Zolf’s legs splay on either side of him, just a bit too high for that sweet pressure to do anything. 

“Wasn’t planning to,” Zolf says, with a grin that can only be described as wolfish.

Wilde gives a breathless laugh and curls his hands against the back of Zolf’s neck to drag him down into another of those bruising, hungry kisses. 

Finally Zolf pulls away, and slides down Wilde’s body to the soft sound of hydraulics and magic as artificial muscles flex and extend. 

Up close, Wilde’s cock loses a bit of that elegance in the face of the inherent ridiculousness of how a cock looks, like going from a painting to the messy reality. Wilde bends his legs, toes curling against the bed and bringing his cock close to Zolf’s face. There is a fine tremble that run through his legs, anticipation and need, Zolf supposes; he’s seen it before on the ships, tucked into a dark corner in between shifts because you’re stuck with these people, and land is weeks away, and the other options are drinking or brawling.

He slides his hands down over Wilde’s legs, feeling the shiver from him when breath brushes against sensitive flesh. He digs his fingers into Wilde’s thigh, squeezing until Wilde squirms beneath him, and a foot kicks against his backside.

“Impatient, are we?” Zolf asks, knowing that he’s too close and Wilde can feel every breath.

“Patience is not something I’ve ever been known for,” Wilde replies.

Zolf thinks about how long they’ve been stuck here, watching and waiting, and knows that that is part of the facade. Part of playing the flighty, inconstant, Oscar Wilde. 

He doesn’t cry out when Zolf’s lips close around his dick, but his body jerks against the hold Zolf has on his hips, and when he peers up, he can see the wrist shoved into his mouth to muffle the noise. Well, that’s nice to see. He wonders how long it’s been for Wilde. The lack of sex doesn’t bother Zolf like it would bother others and he can’t quite relate, but the lack of intimacy, the months of isolation watching the world fall apart and realising even those you trust could be an enemy the next time you see them? 

Yeah, he can relate to that. And Wilde is a much more tactile creature than Zolf has ever been. 

He slides his tongue against the head of Wilde’s cock, feeling the weight in his mouth, the taste of skin and hint of salt. He gives an experimental suck, and that does drag a noise from Wilde, stifled as it is. He wonders what Wilde would sound like if there was nothing to hold him back. This is nice enough to hear as it is, the ragged edge to the musical voice, and that same flush of pride that he’s caused the crack. 

He smooths his thumbs against Wilde’s hip bones and he sucks and licks, feeling every twitch and jerk of the man beneath him, in his mouth. His own cock throbs, and he rubs down against the mattress, just enough to keep himself on edge. If it’s over too soon he’ll have to go back to being bored and this is much preferable.

“You- you’re good at this,” Wilde says, voice breathless and raspy. There’s less surprise than Zolf had expected.

Zolf curls his tongue against the slit at the tip of Wilde’s cock, hears the words bite off. And then he pulls away, lets his breath brush against sensitive flesh. “There’s limited entertainment when you’re stuck out at sea for months, especially on the less reputable ships.”

Wilde pushes himself up on his elbows so he can peer down at Zolf. There’s a smirk on his lips. “My my, Mr Smith, your dark past rears its head.”

Zolf snorts. “Not exactly breaking news,” he says dryly. 

“No,” Wilde concedes, “but I find it delightful all the same.”

“I’ve never been delightful,” Zolf grumbles, and he bends back down to take Wilde’s cock between his lips again. 

“I- ahhhh!” Wilde’s voice trails off into a moan as Zolf gives a hard suck. “I- I’m definitely finding this delightful,” he manages to get out, and the strain in his voice makes Zolf smile.

Slim fingers curl into his hair, a twist, a tug, and oh, that feels good, the slight edge of pain and the softness of Wilde’s fingers against his scalp. It makes his dick twitch and he ruts against the mattress again, hot, tight friction. 

He can feel Wilde tensing up, the spring-coiled tightness of his thighs, the tautness of his stomach when Zolf slides a hand up his leg to stroke blunt fingers against it. He trembles beneath Zolf’s attention, and he is so warm, and real and vulnerable in this world where they’ve cast off trust like a torn garment, no longer fit for purpose.

He hears Wilde cry out when he comes, the sound leaking out around the teeth marks on his wrist. Zolf swallows him down, like sea-spray on his tongue. He’s a little out of practice and it stains his lips, but better that taste than the tang of blood on his teeth from a brawl, or the acid blue of infection.

He takes his time, drags it out and laps against Wilde’s cock as it softens to draw out the last hungry, desperate noises from him. Even when he’s done, he takes a moment to make sure that his beard scratches against Wilde’s thigh when he presses a kiss there. It’s worth it for the way he squirms, still oversensitive and needy.

Finally, Zolf pulls away, rolls over onto his back, and grips Wilde’s thigh with one hand to feel the tremors die down. Eventually, Wilde’s fingers drop to his hair again, stroking through it near mindlessly as the other man regains that precious control he’s so proud of.

“That was- hah- that was good,” Wilde says after a few moments, and if Zolf hadn’t spent so much time with him the last few months, living in close quarters and learning those tells and tics that make up Oscar Wilde, he would probably have missed the hitch in his breath and the split-second stumble over the words.

“Don’t fall over yourself with praise there,” Zolf says dryly. He knows he’s not one of Wilde’s usual pretty things, but he also knows he’s left Wilde with nothing to complain about.

If he tilts his head back a little, he can see Wilde push himself up onto his elbows and peer down at him. His cheeks are flushed, the colour showing up starkly on his pale complexion. He smirks. It’s a lopsided expression, and there is something more raw to it; it is an expression that is not practised to perfection, not the sort of smirk he’d wear when skewering upper class snobs with a surgeon’s precision.

“Would you prefer I write you a poem?” he asks, and rolls onto all fours with animal grace. “And his sweet red lips on these lips of mine, Burned like the ruby fire set.” 

He moves so his head is over Zolf’s, and Zolf has to look up at him. His hair doesn’t quite frame his face like it probably would have once, and there’s no artful makeup or prestidigitation to hide the sharp lines of cheeks and jaw, or the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes.

“Gods, no,” Zolf replies, and impulsively reaches up to touch Wilde’s cheek. The man doesn’t lean into it; that isn’t what they are here and now, but he doesn’t pull away and that says more than no end of honeyed words. “I’m not the type of person anyone writes poetry about. Or wants it for that matter,” he adds quickly, just in case Wilde gets ideas.

Wilde snorts. “That is for the poet to decide.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Zolf mutters, and it brings another faint but honest smile to Wilde’s lips.

“Very wise.”

Zolf wonders, if he checks his pocket watch, how many slow minutes will have passed. If this has brought news or instruction any closer to them. He pushes himself up, intending to go and check, the itch for action already starting to seep back into him. 

Wilde puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back down, giving him a look of consternation, his brows drawn together as he regards Zolf. 

“What?” Zolf asks bluntly.

“You’re still hard,” Wilde says. “Let me take care of you.”

He supposes he is. He shrugs, or as much of a shrug as he can manage on his back like this. “Don’t have to.”

Getting off feels good, but it’s never been a driving factor for him. It’ll go away on its own, or he’ll wank in the bathroom and come back clear headed and a bit more relaxed.

“I would like to,” Wilde says, with an earnestness that surprises Zolf. “If you’re amenable, of course.”

Zolf considers it for a moment. It’s rare that someone bothers to ask about that, once someone’s already got off, the assumption that of course he’d want hands and mouth all over him going unchallenged. And most of the time it doesn’t bother him. It’s like most foods; nice enough to try, but not something he’ll go out of his way for.

“Well,” he says, “if you’re offering.”

“I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t want to,” Wilde replies primly. 

The lightness of the words and months of working together convinces Zolf that that isn’t strictly true. But he believes that it’s true now, when it’s just them, and they’re not on opposite sides of a mission.

Wilde leans down to kiss him, a brief brush of lips, and then coaxes him back to lean against the headboard so Wilde can settle between his legs.

He runs his hands down Zolf’s hips and thighs. His palms are warm, and the pressure is perfect to loosen some of the tension that Zolf carries with him every day. His thumbs dig into muscle and skin that never quite stops being tender, and brush delicately against the points where flesh becomes metal. 

“Mouth, or hand?” Wilde asks, as though he’s enquiring how Zolf takes his tea.

“Hand,” Zolf says. He’s not in the mood now for slick and wet, and he wants to look Wilde in the eyes, not see the top of his head. Besides, he can’t get that request out of his mind, that he not try to gag Wilde, or cover his mouth. 

Maybe next time, if there is one. Maybe never. He’s never been able to pin down a pattern for his inconstant desires.

Wilde doesn’t pry, just nods and teases his tongue out over his lips as he looks at Zolf’s cock like it’s the best treat he’s ever seen. He’s started to soften by now, but Wilde grazes his fingers over it, the tips of them pressing firmly enough to draw him back to full hardness. 

He gives a pleased little hum, and meets Zolf’s eyes with one of those lopsided but so genuine smiles. And then he starts to stroke. 

His hand is skilled. Zolf had never really considered that there could be a skill to it. Thought it was just something people with cocks did out of instinct, and sure, there’s some touches he prefers over others, but it’s all much the same to him. But Wilde works him like an instrument, a flute or clarinet, maddeningly light brushes of his fingers segueing into the curl of his palm into firmness a shade short of painful and the flick of nails until Zolf comes with a cry and a shudder and the hot burst of come over elegant skin and joints and sinew.

Wilde looks inordinately pleased with himself. He settles back on his haunches and drinks in the sight of Zolf as he pants and tries to gather himself. 

“Satisfactory?” Wilde asks, that tease in his voice raking sparks across Zolf’s skin.

Zolf laughs softly, breathless. “It’ll do.”

Wilde laughs and slides off the bed to go clean up. He gives Zolf’s shoulder a companionable pat as he does. “Did this suitably distract from your boredom?”

He closes his eyes, and lets out a breath, feeling his frantic heart start to return to normal. “Definitely helped.” 

Killed some time for sure, and he’ll probably sleep better too when it’s his turn. And, well, call it a team building experience. 

He glances over, and Wilde is there, in the doorway of the bathroom, naked and confident and lovely. There that crease on his forehead again, and he looks like he’s going to ask something. To pry.

Zolf holds his breath, waits for the questions to come. ‘I didn’t think you were interested’ with a lascivious smile, or comments about his irresistible charm. Nothing he hasn’t heard before. Maybe he’ll even manage to joke along and avoid questions.

Instead Wilde just nods at him, and heads into the bathroom. Zolf can hear the water running. The air in the little flat seems calmer now, devoid of that horrible tension which had permeated every inch of it.

Zolf closes his eyes and finds that he can breathe.


End file.
